


What Are Friends For?

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, d/s verse, much more smut this way, this is the fanfic version of "friendship" not the real one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: In a world where everyone's a Dom, a sub, or non-dynamic, Dom!Lestrade encounters a drug dealer who brags that his sub is "a tall posh ginger bloke who secretly runs the government." Greg intimidates the Dom into never telling anyone else, but he knows it leaves Mycroft in a bind: the man has always presented as a non-dynamic, and to be outed as a sub would cause problems. It also means that Mycroft's down a trustworthy Dom. Greg comes to Mycroft with an offer: until Mycroft can vet someone better (who doesn’t break the law and doesn’t blab), he’ll be happy to help. Since they're friends and all.What could possibly go wrong with that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ginger2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger2012/gifts).



> This is for Ginger2012, who won a fic from me in the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction :-) Sorry it's taken me so long!

“I’ll be out of here within the hour,” the handcuffed Dom yelled. “You just wait - one of my clients is in a _very_ high place. He’ll have you all fired by tomorrow.”

“Shut it, Mr. Wilkins.” The officer leading the suspect to the interrogation room nodded a greeting to Greg as they passed in the hallway. She was a non-dynamic, clearly, because she didn’t appear to give a crap about the man’s threats or his aggressive posturing. “I don’t care who you think you know.”

“You will,” the Dom - Wilkins, apparently - shouted. He could have been yelling like that for ages already; no wonder she looked so pissed. “Tall ginger bloke, basically runs the country. Says he can’t live without me.” The man grinned, an ugly twist of his lips. “Posh bit of arse, but dangerous when someone gets in his way. You’re making a big mistake.”

Greg stopped dead. He didn’t know the officer by name and the Dom definitely wasn’t his division, but _tall posh ginger bloke who basically runs the country_ sounded a lot like someone he knew. Someone who wouldn't be springing a lowlife Dom from custody, but who would probably prefer Wilkins keep his mouth shut.

_Bollocks._

For as long as Greg has known Mycroft, he’d never managed to get a bead on the man. Most of the time Mycroft read as a non-dynamic: he didn’t react to petty Dom squabbles, never cringed the way subs often did when a Dom got too pushy, and never opined on how dynamic could predict behavior or how subs needed to “know their place” or any of the other dozen or so hot-button rants that made up the majority of the Sun nowadays. Then again, he rarely expressed an opinion on anything, unless you count his decrees-disguised-as-orders when it came to watching over Sherlock’s well-being.

Could Mycroft secretly be a sub, though? Legally the dynamics (and non-dynamics) were supposed to be equal, but everyone knew that wasn’t really the case. Greg had seen that first-hand with his parents - his mother the Dom getting promoted well past the point she could do her job with confidence, his father the sub being “let go” time and time again for bullshit reasons. Most of which came down to “we don’t want to give the impression we’re weak” or “we don’t trust a sub to do even basic mundane tasks.” It drove both of them to drinking, toward the end. Both had been ecstatic when Greg presented as a Dom in his early teens.

And _shit._ Even if Mycroft wasn’t the tall ginger bloke the Dom was bragging about, someone might get the wrong impression and assume something. Greg had no idea what exactly Mycroft’s job entailed, but rumors of being a sub would probably complicate it immensely.

“Hey,” he called back to the arresting officer. “Sounds like your Mr. Wilkins has a mouth on him. Want me to help you walk him to his room? He’ll be less of a cock when he’s got to go face to face with another Dom.”

Indecision showed on her face, but apparently she was sick of the Dom’s bullshit too. “Appreciated,” she said. “You’re Greg Lestrade, right? Sorry, I’ve only been here a month. Transferred from Liverpool. I’m still trying to learn names.”

“That’s me.” Greg put a firm hand on the Dom’s shoulderblade and deftly took over steering the man by the handcuffs. “You’re drugs division?”

She nodded. “This lovely gentleman was selling heroin out of his girlfriend’s flat. He was also, we’ve now been able to prove, ‘loaning’ his submissive clients out in lieu of repayment for sales. A real charmer.”

Wilkins smirked, somehow making the expression into a leer at the same time. “Could give your arse a good paddling too, honey, and maybe we could dislodge that stick you’ve got up it.”

“Oi!” Greg shoved the man’s shoulder as hard as he dared, knowing the whole building was under video surveillance. “That’s no way to treat a lady, mate. Would serve you right if I jammed a stick up yours.” He turned his head so the Dom couldn’t see and flashed a wink at the young officer beside him. “Sorry - you were saying?”

They chatted politely all the way to getting Wilkins in the farthest interrogation room, the one that didn’t smell as bad as the others. Greg transferred the Dom’s handcuffed wrists to the seat of the chair in the room, then turned to the other officer - Samantha, she’d said - with his most innocent look. “I’ll stay here with him while you double-check the feed is working, if you like. Sometimes it takes a minute to boot up.”

She nodded and ducked back into the small observation area. 

_Now’s my chance._

“I think I may know your government bloke,” Greg said in an undertone to the Dom. The ancient computer system usually did need a while to start recording, but he kept his voice down anyway. “If your ‘client’ is the man I’m thinking of, ‘screwed’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover your situation. His brother was stabbed by a cocaine dealer once; we found the guy in an air duct. Of course, at that point he was basically confetti. Made IDing him hard.”

Wilkins scoffed, but his eyes were wide. “Mike’s a poof and a sub besides. Hiding both. He knows I can ruin him if I go public.”

“Look, you idiot,” Greg hissed. “What I’m saying is that if you talk, _you won’t exist long enough to ruin anyone._ Think about _that_ before you go waving your dick around, hmmm? I’ve had cases - actual bloody serial killer cases - up and vanish because your ‘Mike’ didn’t want them to exist. The law doesn’t apply to him. I promise you, whatever the charges against you are, you’re better off dealing with them and putting ‘Mike’ out of your head.” He sat back and pinned Wilkins with a hard stare. “It’s your funeral, is what I’m saying. Don’t make that be literal.”

Greg was halfway to standing when the door opened and DI Dimmock sauntered in. “Heard you’d given Officer Mullins a hand with our suspect,” he commented. “We’ve got it from here, but thanks for your help.”

Help, indeed. Greg forgot entirely about the errand he’d been running in the first place and instead stepped outside to a sheltered nook around the corner. Mycroft wasn’t going to be happy, but he deserved to know.

***

“Gregory. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Same expressionless voice as always. Merely hearing Mycroft sound so in control was soothing, for some reason. “Not really a pleasure,” Greg explained. “More a heads-up. I just had a lovely conversation with a man named Wilkins. Heroin dealer and a pimp, or so I’m told. More importantly, a Dom.”

Mycroft made a polite noise indicating for Greg to continue.

 _Oh, bloody hell._ “He said you were his client. Or rather, that a tall posh ginger bloke named ‘Mike’ who basically ran the country was a client of his. A sub, high up in politics and hiding his dynamic. And that he expects this sub to pull some strings and get him out of custody - oh, and to have everyone at the Yard fired. I know you’ve always given the impression you’re a non-dynamic, but I wondered… well, this hit close enough to home to merit a call. Even if somehow I’m wrong and he’s not talking about you, others might assume anyway.”

“I see.” There was several seconds of silence on the line. Mycroft didn’t admit anything, but Greg suspected he didn’t have to. The lack of an immediate reply said it all. “Thank you for telling me,” Mycroft finally said. “I will ensure this Wilkins isn’t under any illusions.”

“I warned him off, for whatever good that might do. Nothing he could say was a literal threat, but...” Gregory turned his next words over and over in his head before finally blurting them out. “Mycroft… look. If this _is_ you, which I know you’re not going to tell me over the phone, losing your Dom is going to be damned inconvenient. I get why you might want to go to someone under an assumed name and I’m guessing you probably do it as little as your body lets you get away with. If you need a hand, though… well.” Fuck, this was embarrassing. “I’d-like-to-think-we’re-friends-enough-you-could-ask-me-for-help.” It came out in in one long rush. “I’m a Dom, I’m single, and I can be discreet. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Just… think about it?”

Greg could have sworn Mycroft was holding his breath. Then - “Your concern does you merit,” the man murmured. “I appreciate the call.”

“No problem. And good luck.”

“You too, Gregory.”


	2. Chapter 2

Morning came and Mycroft didn’t call. Greg was surprised at how disappointed he was about that - it’s not like their tenuous friendship had ever touched on their respective dynamics or lack thereof. He’d wondered, because it was hard _not_ to wonder things about someone as bloody hard to read as Mycroft was, but that was all. Various issues with Sherlock over the years had brought their paths together on a fairly regular basis. Certainly no reason to assume Mycroft would want Greg to tie him down and fuck him until he couldn’t see straight.

No, that fantasy was all in Greg’s head.

He did get a call from John asking if he wanted to go out for a pint the next day, though. This wasn’t unusual. The unusual part was that Sherlock apparently wanted to come along.

“You sure, mate?” Greg asked when John and Sherlock finally showed up at their usual meeting pub, halfway between 221B and Greg’s flat. “Just - you hate things like this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I owed my brother a favor, if you must know. And John insisted. We’re your alibi for the evening.”

 _Alibi? Shit._ Greg groaned. “Please tell me there’s nothing illegal going on that I need to know about,” he said. “Like, oh, a specific suspect we currently have in custody being murdered on my watch.” It would be just like Mycroft to go around being creepily governmental but to first make sure there was no possible way Greg was in the building. Thoughtful, in a twisted way.

“It’s not technically your watch,” Sherlock countered, stealing a sip from John’s pint and curling his lip in distaste. “Although…” He suddenly brightened. “Suspect in custody, you said? Wouldn’t happen to be dark-haired, about John’s height, looks a bit like an overly-muscular ferret? Oh, no _wonder_ Mycroft was so put out.” He looked disturbingly enthusiastic about Greg accusing his brother of assassination. “Stop looking at me like that, Gavin. We both know my brother only commits murder for queen and country, and purely by proxy. Wilkins will still be alive in the morning, although not necessarily in police custody anymore. And probably not talking much.”

There was really no point in denying the situation, especially since Sherlock seemed to know exactly who the Dom was. Greg sighed and took a too-large gulp of his drink. “Friend of yours, then, I take it?”

“At least _some_ one thinks Sherlock’s capable of friendship,” John grumbled. “Everyone else thought I should be bloody committed when I agreed to share a flat with this berk.”

Greg didn’t deny it. Still didn’t see how it worked, honestly - John was a Dom and kept halfheartedly seeking out pretty female subs; Sherlock was non-dynamic and ruined every date John ever went on (going by how John lamented about the dates afterward). The only ones who didn’t realize they were functionally in a relationship were the two of them, and that was probably only because Sherlock was a total idiot about that sort of thing. John might think he liked his partners feminine and submissive, but he certainly seemed to love the extra challenge of bossing Sherlock around. Someday John would get over Sherlock having a penis and Sherlock would get over his fear of human emotions and the two of them would get it all sorted out… but they were a ways away from that yet.

Sherlock hummed to himself. “Not what you’re thinking,” he finally said. “I didn’t buy drugs from him - heroin was never my first choice. He was good friends with my regular dealer for a while, though, and their respective subs and I shared the same taste in narcotics. Wilkins’ was a brilliant idiot who went by the unfortunate name “Rooster,” and my dealer’s at the time was a pretty brunette named… I forget her name, but it started with a ‘B.’ She got clean eventually - part of what convinced me the cocaine wasn’t as helpful to my work as I originally thought. But Mycroft met Wilkins when I overdosed.”

John’s profane comment was eloquent, creative, and betrayed his experience in the army. Sherlock nudged John’s shoulder with his own in a gesture Greg would have called apologetic if it had been from anyone else.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “For a drug dealer, the man wasn’t actually that bad. He was the one who called 999, even though he must have known the police would search his flat. Mycroft managed to pin everything they found on my dealer because of that. I knew he and Mycroft kept in touch while I was in rehab, although I didn’t want anything to do with it and still don’t.” He shuddered.

John frowned. “Why would…”

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “Wilkins must have been threatening something, for you to call Mycroft. You must have done. And you - _oh!_ ” He gaped at Greg, eyes wide. “Oh, I _see._ ”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just - look Wilkins up tomorrow, even if he’s not ‘your watch.’ And then go confront Mycroft about it. I’ll text you his address, if you don’t have it already. Whatever you have to tell him, he needs to hear it.”

***

Greg had a long and frustrating morning in court the next day, not at all helped by how much he was itching to get back to the Yard and find out what was going on. By the time he finished giving his testimony he was grumpy and starving. The lunch break came and he was the first out the door.

A disappointingly dry Pret sandwich later, Greg was finally back at his desk and able to do some prying. Open the computer, check for an arrest with the last name Wilkins made the day before yesterday, and…

Nothing.

_Damn._

Five minutes later he was lying to Sally - court needs me again this afternoon, so sorry, leaving some of my paperwork to you - and was on his way to the address Sherlock had texted him.

***

“Yes?”

Greg had half expected a butler to open the door, but Mycroft himself stood in the foyer and frowned at him. “Wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” Greg admitted. “It occurred to me once I was already on your doorstep that you were probably either at a meeting or halfway across the globe. Or both.”

“I work from home on occasion.” Mycroft’s frown deepened. “Gregory, much as I enjoy the visit…”

“Oi, wait.” Greg deftly stepped past the man and shut the door behind them. “I need to know what happened with Wilkins.”

“Need?”

“Fine, _want_. Whatever. Point is, did you really spring him from custody and erase all record of him ever having been arrested? Damn it, Mycroft, I stuck my neck out for you and practically threatened the man with evisceration if he didn’t leave you alone.”

Mycroft huffed. “I appreciate your concern,” he said slowly, “but I assure you Wilkins will no longer be trafficking in drugs _or_ submissives.”

“Yeah, well, your assurance isn’t bloody helpful.” No matter how much Mycroft tried to perfect that infuriating calm stare, Greg was in no mood to be dicked around. “It’s fucking insulting for you to come into my workplace and act like the laws are optional. I don’t care how good a fuck Wilkins is.”

A surprising hint of pink appeared on Mycroft’s cheeks. “You misunderstand my relationship with the man.”

“What, he’s not your Dom? Or not your lover? Surprise, Mycroft, I’m not as much of an idiot as you seem to think. You present yourself as non-dynamic. Fine, good. I get it. But you and I both know you’re not.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could tell they were true. Mycroft’s rattled expression gave everything away.

“Gregory, I…”

Greg had never seen Mycroft flustered before. It was an uncomfortable experience.

“Ours was a business relationship and borne out of necessity,” Mycroft finally said. They were past him denying being a sub, then. Good. “I’m sure you see why I require… discretion in that area. I assure you, though, there was nothing sexual about it.”

Platonic Dom/sub relationships were uncommon, but they did exist. Hard to imagine Mycroft submitting to anyone, much less a stranger, Greg realized. It made sense. “Still must have been an exceptional Dom for you to let him off the hook like that,” he retorted.

Mycroft bowed his head. “He’s not ‘off the hook;’ believe me. Wilkins is on his way to Chicago right now, with a new name and a small flat pre-paid for the next three months. He’s also been made aware of the warrant issued for his arrest by Interpol, which won’t impact him in the least as long as he stays in America and keeps his head down.”

“What, imaginary charges?”

“Oh no, very real.” Mycroft smiled. It was not a nice smile. “He may have put together a few bits and pieces about my identity over the years, but that’s nothing compared to what I assembled about his. I may not have seen him in over two months, but I knew nothing had changed.”

_Christ._

Then... _Oh!_ Greg blinked.

“You say you haven’t seen him in over two months. Does that mean you’ve gone that long without getting your needs met?”

Mycroft made a choking sound. “A forward question,” he finally said, “but yes. It does. I don’t particularly enjoy Wilkins’s company, so I generally put it off as long as I can.”

“Which is two months.” Good lord. Greg had trouble concentrating if he went more than a fortnight without a scene, and subs usually fared much worse. “How are you even functional right now? No, don’t lie to me. I may not be able to deduce like you and Sherlock can, but I can see that you’re not at your best right now.” Now that he was paying attention, anyway. He ran a critical eye over Mycroft’s body. Perfectly pressed suit like usual, but there were some subtle tells… “Your shoulders are slumped and there are faint shadows under your eyes, suggesting you’re not sleeping well. You’ve lost a bit of weight since I saw you last. Admit it: you’re flagging.”

Mycroft didn’t admit it - but he didn’t deny it, either.

And Greg knew he had to do something. Even if asking made him feel like he was a shy teenager again. “Mycroft, would you… may I help? A short scene? Nothing sexual,” he hastened to clarify. “We can do it right here. Five minutes, maybe ten.”

That earned him a long look and an unreadable facial expression. “You think a five-minute scene would do anything?” Mycroft eventually said. “Gregory, I…”

“Five minutes, right here in your front hall. No kneeling, no nudity, you don’t have to take off a stitch. Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with. But yes, I damn well can put you into subspace and pull you back out within five minutes. If you hate it we’ll pretend it never happened and never talk about it again.”

An eternity passed before Mycroft finally nodded. “Have it your way, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Excellent._ Greg took a moment to mentally roll up his sleeves, not that putting Mycroft Holmes under took much psyching up to do. God, Greg itched to get his hands on the man. “Close your eyes,” he commanded. “Hands loosely at your sides. And speak up if I do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Mycroft sucked in a long breath, but he obeyed. “Are you planning to?” he asked.

“Do something you’d be uncomfortable with? No, but I know it takes a lot of trust to submit to someone. And something tells me you’re not a man who gives that type of trust easily.” Greg turned Mycroft to face him, then put his hand against Mycroft’s forehead. “Right. Keep your eyes shut and focus on listening to me, okay? I want you to concentrate on the feel of me against your skin. Push into my touch.”

Mycroft leaned slightly forward, letting some of his weight transfer through to Greg’s palm. Greg braced himself and pressed back. Mycroft was taller, but not by enough to make leverage a factor - Greg was able to slowly move his hand this way and that and Mycroft followed brilliantly.

“Good, good,” Greg murmured. Even that little bit of motion could be disorienting without the sense of sight to compensate, he knew from experience. Mycroft needed praise and the extra time to adjust to subspace and to being off-balance, trusting in Greg not to let him topple forward. “Up on your toes more. That’s it.”

“Mmmm.” Mycroft shifted and pressed harder still. Greg planted a hip against a low vanity table and took the extra weight. With his other hand he fought with his tie until he could get it off entirely. _Thank god I had court today_. Mycroft had to be quivering on the edge of submission - blindfolding him, taking away even that little bit of effort necessary to keep his eyes closed, would make it easier for him to let go.

“I’m going to ease you forward now,” Greg said, and allowed Mycroft to lead the two of them in a slow shuffle toward the nearest wall. Mycroft silently obeyed. Those tense shoulders were already lowered noticeably, although the man’s spine was as straight as ever. Greg adjusted their angle and helped Mycroft stand with his nose to the posh gold-and-roses wallpaper.

“Back down to stand flat on your feet. There you go.” Greg eased Mycroft into position - facing the wall as close as Greg could put him, arms behind his back, hands clasped together low over his arse. Mycroft complied without so much as a twitch. Greg stepped back and quickly reknotted his tie to make a better blindfold.

“Still doing okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.” A content little rumble.

“I’m going to cover your eyes now, so you don’t have to worry about accidentally opening them. Keep your arms relaxed and your shoulders back.” He wound the tie around Mycroft’s head and cinched it loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough it wouldn’t slip. “Arch your back slightly - _that’s_ it. Keep your stomach touching the wall but don’t lean. Balance, and focus on my touch. You’re doing beautifully, Mycroft. I’m so pleased with you.”

A slight shiver passed over Mycroft’s body, only noticeable because Greg was still holding the man’s shoulder. _Damn._ This was going even better than Greg could have imagined. He retreated only for a moment, then ran a firm hand up the back of Mycroft’s neck. It wasn’t quite a caress, wasn’t quite possessive - something between the two. Mycroft gasped and let out a small groan.

“Gorgeous,” Greg breathed. “Perfect. You’re listening so well. Let your mind go blank except for the feel of my fingers on you and the sound of my voice.” He ran a nail once more over the short hairs at Mycroft’s nape, then centered his thumb and forefinger over the vertebrae slightly below Mycroft’s skull and pressed his nails in. Hard.

“Oh!”

_Oh, indeed._ Greg kept the pressure up, digging his fingernails into the defenseless skin of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft was breathing faster, short inhales and a near-silent sob every time he breathed out, but he kept his back arched just enough that his face never touched the wall. Accepting the pain and reveling in it.

“Let it all go, Mycroft,” Greg urged quietly. “All the stress, all the frustration, all the responsibility. The only thing you need to do right now is feel. Let me take care of you for a little while. Feel every inch of your skin - the texture of your socks on the soles of your feet, the fabric of your trousers, the weight of your belt. The press of your stomach against the wall and the feel of your shirt against your chest. The pounding of your pulse inside you, throughout, bringing it all together. Lean into the pain. It’s a gift. Take it, feel it, accept it. Feel how it’s grounding you. Can you do that?”

Mycroft nodded minutely. He literally pressed his neck harder against Greg’s fingernails.

“All your stress is flowing out of you now.” Greg swapped the fingernails for a stern pinch and then to a gentler massaging motion he could probably keep up indefinitely. He stepped closer and leaned in, his chest to Mycroft’s back. Mycroft’s hands were still clasped together and hanging naturally at about the height of Greg’s cock; Greg carefully kept his hips tilted so Mycroft wouldn’t notice. Especially so he wouldn’t notice how much of a bloody turn-on this was for a mere mortal, being allowed to give orders to Mycroft Fucking Holmes.

It was bloody amazing.

“Picture your stress as a liquid,” Greg continued, trying to keep the wave of lust from coming through in his tone. This was supposed to be something non-sexual and simple, damn it. “Imagine that everything making you tense is trickling down to the ground and draining away. Feel it leave your body. I’m pressing it out of you, wringing you out. What’s left behind is _you_. You’ve let me take control for a little while to cleanse you of all that, but now you’ll find you can take back your body at your own pace. You’ve done very well - now you feel refreshed and clean.” _Hopefully._ “Let your mind fill again, but keep that sense of being grounded. I’m proud of how well you listened to me.”

Greg kept leaning his weight on Mycroft for a minute longer, then backed off a few steps to clear his own head. Mycroft came back to himself more slowly than Greg expected, but eventually he did remove the blindfold and turn back around.

“Gregory.” His voice was a near-subsonic rumble. Mycroft blinked against the light a few times, then deftly unknotted Greg’s tie without looking and handed it back. Greg would have thought Mycroft was completely unaffected if his neutral expression hadn’t still been ever-so-slightly _off_.

“So.” Greg offered a tentative smile. “Believe me now?”

The impossible happened: Mycroft smiled back, his gaze soft. “I’m… rarely speechless,” he said slowly, “but I find myself without words to describe that experience. That was…” He stretched his arms out in front of him and examined his hands like he’d never seen them before. “I feel remarkably content.”

“That’s good. Excellent.” Greg glanced down at his watch. “A touch over ten minutes, I’ll admit, but I hope it helped.”

“It did.” Mycroft gaze danced back up to Greg’s face and gradually slid from astonished and submissive back to its normal sharpness. “I owe you an apology for my rudeness earlier. Apparently you saw better than I did what I needed.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what the Dom/sub relationship is for.” Not that one scene constituted a _relationship_ , really, but Greg couldn’t help but wish it were. At the very least he’d love another chance to see Mycroft in subspace, his walls down and that magnificent mind voluntarily quiet. Simply because his Dom told him to. “Happy to help anytime,” Greg offered. “It’s not like I’m seeing anyone right now who might object, and I’m feeling a lot less twitchy now than I’ve been all week. It’s a mutually beneficial thing.”

Mycroft regarded him steadily for another long moment. Just when Greg thought he was going to get pushed out the door with no further explanation, Mycroft bowed his head. “In that case,” he murmured, “may I call you next week? If this wasn’t merely altruism?”

Greg thought ahead to the week’s worth of wanks he was going to have from this afternoon alone. “Definitely not altruism,” he assured him. “And yes - you’ve got my number.”


	4. Chapter 4

One week came and went, with no phone call. By a week and a half Greg was itching to call Mycroft himself, but then a high-profile double homicide came up and he barely had time to think for a few days. John, the saint, started bringing an extra coffee when he and Sherlock showed up at the Yard. The good kind, not the crap from the break room. Greg and John ended up standing and chatting in the hallway outside Greg’s office when Sherlock unexpectedly shoved them both out and shut the door.

“Thinking,” he declared.

“Hey, you can’t--”

“Not the first time he’s locked someone out of their own workspace,” John commented. “Molly expects it by now, I think.”

“It’s not bloody well on.” Greg resisted the urge to kick his office door. “At least tell me he’s made progress?”

John shrugged. “He spent all of last night on Facebook, printed out enough posts and status updates to repaper the entre flat, then lay on the couch and did his best imitation of a sarcophagus for most of today. About forty-five minutes ago he jumped up and yelled that we were coming here. I hid his shoes until he agreed to shower and put on real clothes, though,” he added with a note of pride in his voice. “You’re welcome.”

Greg snorted. “Maybe you could clip a hamster water bottle onto the window of your cab, get him to drink something too?”

John grinned and pulled a squarish object out of his pocket--an energy bar. “Closest thing to nutrition I can get him to ingest while he’s on a case high like this,” he explained. “Apparently this particular homicide is a nine on his totally arbitrary scale--I was starting to worry he’d either grow roots in the kitchen or wilt without enough vitamin D.”

“Your flatmate is a houseplant?”

“Hey, if the metaphor fits…”

Greg’s office door swung open. “I’m literally losing brain cells lip-reading you two,” Sherlock grumbled. “Lestrade, _think_ : did the female victim’s father show any indication of having broken a rib sometime in the recent past? You have his testimony but no photos. If he did, the girl’s mother was the catalyst for the murder-suicide. If not, the boyfriend was spurred on by the victim herself. Well?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t--let me think, okay? I’m running on about five hours of sleep all week.”

“So’s he,” John muttered.

“Oh, but surely you haven’t--” Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed with a click. “Ah. I see. Tell me, have you been keeping up with the current political situation in the Ukraine?”

“...No?”

“You might want to.” Sherlock looked Greg over with an all-too-observant eye. “In particular, you may want to wrap up this case and get back to your flat by, oh, 6 AM or so. You’ll both be better off for it. And now I’m going to have to delete this conversation and scrub all trace from ever permeating my grey matter again, so you have my gratitude for that. Or whatever the exact opposite of gratitude is. Come on, John.”

***

The victim’s mother was abusive after all, which the father’s bruised and fractured ribs demonstrated nicely. The mother’s professional boxing career was less expected, but leave it to Sherlock to not mention the one detail that might actually allow mere mortals to follow his convoluted train of thought. Greg pushed through the paperwork all in one go, told Sally he was taking the rest of the fucking day off to sleep so the interrogation was her problem now, and only kept awake on the early-morning Tube through sheer stubborn willpower. He made it a full six steps into his flat before he registered the presence of another human being on his couch. “Oh.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft flashed him a weak but polite smile. He looked nearly as knackered as Greg felt. “I apologize for not calling first, but I’ve been out of the country and unable to--”

“Yeah, in the Ukraine, Sherlock told me. Well, hinted. Not sure which side of the coup attempt you were on, but it sounds like you had fun.” God, Greg didn’t even have enough energy to attempt the basics of hospitality. “Have you slept?”

Mycroft blinked.

“Thought not.” Greg backtracked enough to grab Mycroft’s arm and tug. “Come on, then. Sleep first and then we can see what we can do about the rest.”

“I can come back later,” Mycroft murmured. “I didn’t mean to--”

“Mycroft, with all due respect, shove it.” Greg pointed authoritatively at the bed. “I’m too tired to deal with you pussyfooting around what we damn well know we both want. Sleep and then a scene, in that order, yes?”

Mycroft nodded slowly.

“It’s a big bed. Pick a side. I’m going to brush my teeth and take the world’s fastest shower because I’ve been in these bloody clothes for three days straight, and then I’m going to pass out next to you until a more reasonable hour. Feel free to borrow anything of mine that you need. Spare toiletries in the cupboard under the sink. I mean, feel free to take the sofa if you’d prefer, but the cushions are crap and I’d really like to spend the next several hours next to you. Even if we’re both unconscious.”

“Oh.” Mycroft crossed to the bed and sat primly on the edge. “I’m… probably in a similar mental state at the moment. This is a large imposition, though; I was forward in letting myself in before you got home--”

“Good. Be forward. I like it. But _later.”_

***

By the time Greg was out of the bathroom, Mycroft was undressed down to his vest and sound asleep under the covers. Greg slipped in the opposite side and joined him.


	5. Chapter 5

It was nearly noon when Greg awoke. Mycroft was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, frowning at his phone and occasionally typing something. He’d redressed in his previous day’s suit, minus the coat. It was patently unfair how unrumpled he looked.

“Feel better?” Mycroft asked.

Greg yawned. “Much, although I’ll probably still need a nap later. Did you get any sleep at all? I mean, other than the five minutes between when I brushed my teeth and when I passed out too?”

“Some.”

“And yet you’re already working. Because I’m guessing that’s not Twitter you’ve got open there.”

Mycroft’s nose twitched. “I deal with enough idiots on a daily basis,” he declared. “I don’t relish the thought of being inundated with them recreationally as well.”

Yeah, that was about what Greg expected his position on social media would be. Perhaps when you _are_ the British government, you don’t have the luxury of frivolous self-aggrandizement online. “Still up for a bit of a scene, though? Don’t have to go save the world just yet?”

Mycroft smiled faintly and put down his phone. “If you’re amenable. If not I’ll survive--even that few hours of rest was remarkably refreshing--but I was hoping… Well.”

God, Greg was _hoping_ too. For more than he’d dare ask. “Yes, then. Gimme a mo’ to brush my teeth and I’ll be right back out, okay?”

He raced through his morning routine in the loo, completely unable to forget the fact that _Mycroft Holmes is in my fucking bed. Fuck._

“Better?” Mycroft asked politely when Greg returned.

“Subjecting my partner to morning breath isn’t usually part of my Dom routine, so yes.” Greg tugged Mycroft up to standing. “You want to do it in here, or in the sitting room?”

“Either is fine,” Mycroft demurred. “I trust you.”

Like that wasn’t just the most mind-blowing thing anyone had said to Greg, _ever._ He blinked at Mycroft, jaw hanging open, until he finally realized it and closed it with a click. “I’m… wow. Okay. That’s…”

“Surprising?” Mycroft smiled again, somehow shy and smug at the same time. “Congratulations; it’s a very short list to be on.”

“I’m sure.” Greg blinked again. “ _Christ_. Right, just for that you’re getting the best damn scene I’ve ever done. Hopefully. What are you in the mood for?”

For the first time Greg could remember, Mycroft looked a bit hesitant. And that wouldn’t do at all. _Probably hasn’t ever been asked that before_. The mysterious Mr. Wilkins was a fucking wanker.

“You want to get out of your head for a while, yes?” Greg prodded gently. “Want some choices?”

“That would be… preferable.” Was Mycroft actually blushing?

_Right._ Greg cleared his throat. “Well we could do like we did before, a little nudge and some concentration, nothing too intense. That’s always fine, you know. If you want to go deeper--”

“It would be appreciated,” Mycroft murmured.

“--then we’ve got more options. However many clothes you feel comfortable with. I can put you on your knees and warm you up with my hands or a flogger or a paddle; I’ve got both in my toybox. It doesn’t have to be anything sexual if you don’t want it to be. If you prefer following orders we can stick with that too. Whatever kind you like.” He opened his hands wide. “I’m here for what you need, Mycroft. Just tell me. Even if it’s just a good long back rub.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Domination through massage?”

“Oi, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Something tells me the last time your shoulders were all the way relaxed was when you were still a toddler.”

“You may be right.” Mycroft dropped his gaze, which felt oddly submissive considering they hadn’t actually _done_ anything yet. “If you weren’t merely exaggerating for effect… could we start with that and decide the rest later?”

***

Greg made the bed, smoothing out the duvet as best he could, then directed Mycroft to lie down on his stomach in the middle of the mattress. Mycroft paused to strip off his shirt and vest and then did just that.

_Damn._ This was already far beyond what Greg would have ever expected from the British government himself. There was something incredibly _human_ about the way Mycroft’s muscles tensed, the way his freckles stood out against his pale skin. Greg helped Mycroft arrange the pillows so he could keep his head straight without smothering himself, then straddled Mycroft’s hips and planned his attack.

The off-handed comment about Mycroft’s shoulders carrying decades of stress was probably accurate, Greg decided. It didn’t take long before Mycroft was slumped boneless into the mattress and making little happy noises with each press of Greg’s fingers, noises which went directly to Greg’s cock. He kept his groin a careful distance away from Mycroft’s lower back and arse, just in case the bloody genius noticed despite not being able to see or feel it. Mycroft didn’t appear to be deducing anything at the moment, but that didn’t fool Greg for a second.

“Amazing,” Mycroft sighed into the pillow. “You have magic fingers, Gregory.”

He wasn’t the first to say that, but the compliment usually came in a rather different situation. Greg leaned into another full-spine press, running his knuckles down and up and down again. “Helping?” he asked.

“Mmmmm.”

“Have you decided what you’d like next?”

Mycroft wriggled a moment, shifting his arse between Greg’s thighs. “Want to suck you,” he mumbled.

Greg froze.

“Mean it.” Mycroft pulled his head up from the pillow so his words were more intelligible. “Want to kneel for you, suck you off. Pull my hair; make me feel it. Please, Gregory.”

_Fuck._ “You’re further under than I thought.”

“Been a long week.” Mycroft sighed. “Long year, too. Haven’t done that since--oh, _there._ ”

Greg intensified the pressure on the small of Mycroft’s back. “Tell me. Describe what you need.” Christ, if even he could recognize that his voice had dropped half an octave with pure lust, surely Mycroft would too? Greg hesitated a moment, then added, “Be explicit.”

Mycroft arched into Greg’s knuckles and moaned. His voice sounded deeper too. “Need you to be firm,” he said. “Stern. Throw me down on my knees. Tell me to please you, _make_ me make it good. Want to feel your cock on my tongue and taste you in the back of my throat and be nothing but a toy for you until you come. It’s been so long, Gregory. And it’s never been you.”

Well that was bloody well true. Good sex had been a frustratingly long time ago for Greg, too, if you were only counting the scenes he’d shared with an actual partner and not just a casual grope-and-go in the loo of a pub Greg felt twenty years too old for but went to anyway. 

_When he puts out an offer like that..._

Greg abruptly stepped off the side of the bed and tugged his pajama trousers down enough to reach his cock underneath. Before Mycroft--with his subspace-slowed reaction time--was able to react, Greg had already swung back up to kneel with his back to the headboard and a handful of Mycroft’s hair in his fist. Mycroft, still flat on his stomach, craned his neck and panted up at him.

“Hands and knees,” Greg ordered. “One hand behind your back, balance on the other, and keep your eyes on me.”

Mycroft’s expression was truly a thing of beauty. Lust, and surprise, and awe, and a whole host of other emotions Greg didn’t want to examine too closely for fear he get a swelled head to match the throbbing one already jutting out just above his pajama trousers. _Fuck. Mycroft Holmes is eyeing my cock and he wants to suck me off. Begged me for it, even._ Greg twisted a few ginger locks between his thumb and forefinger, then used them to pull Mycroft forward until he was just on the edge of losing his balance. Mycroft’s eyes started to water, even as they pled with Greg to pull harder, and it was beautiful. Breathtaking. The moment Mycroft’s left arm was settled behind his back, Greg thrust forward into his waiting mouth.

“Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.” Greg had to bang the back of his head against the wall to keep from coming right then and there. Mycroft groaned and suckled enthusiastically. No practiced technique, no seduction… this was truly a submissive trying to please his Dom and enjoying the very state of being needed.

And Greg _needed._ Desperately. With a part of his brain he kept a close eye on Mycroft’s reactions--his balance, his breathing, the beautiful flush that showed up so perfectly against the pale skin of his shoulderblades--but the rest of Greg’s mind was fully occupied with _fuck hard wet come now._ He made no attempt to be gentle with Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft clearly loved it. He moaned loudly and sucked with renewed enthusiasm every time Greg thrust, every time Greg shoved his head down and forced him to take that cock as far down his throat as he could. Occasionally Greg would trigger Mycroft’s gag reflex and the man would sputter, but he had an impressively quick recovery time. It felt like only moments later that Greg was approaching the point of no return.

“Take it,” Greg bit out. “I’m gonna come down your beautiful throat, Mycroft. You’ll be good for me, won’t you? You’ll swallow every last drop?”

Mycroft hummed something affirmative, something pleading, and it was all the push Greg needed. At the last second he gave Mycroft’s hair one final yank upward, forcing Mycroft to meet his gaze and watch as he came.

“Holy hell.”

Mycroft hummed again and kept up the gentle suction until Greg finally pushed him off and sank back against the wall, boneless.

“Look at you, you amazing thing. Come here.” It took more focus than Greg really wanted to summon, but he managed to get Mycroft flopped crossways across his spread knees. “You took care of me so well, didn’t you? Did you like that?”

“Oh, yes. So much.” Mycroft nearly breathed it. He did raise his hips obediently, without prompting, so Greg could undo his flies and slide a hand into his trousers and pants. He was rock-hard. _Christ--Mycroft Bloody Holmes is hard from sucking me off._ Greg shifted their angle slightly, the better to reach, then took a firm hold of Mycroft’s cock and started stroking slowly.

“I’m so pleased with you,” Greg murmured as he worked the foreskin up and back, a few loose strokes and then a single tight one. Over and over, still not quite giving Mycroft what he ached for. “We both needed this, I think. Lord, your mouth is lovely. Now I want to see you come for me, Mycroft. Fuck my hand and get yourself off for me right here, right like this. Let me see you come apart. You can do that, can’t you? Let yourself go?” He adjusted his grip and let Mycroft set his own pace. Which he did, hesitant at first and then working up to full-body undulations and helpless little whimpers. He lasted less than a minute before finally seizing up and coming all over Greg’s hand. He then let his full weight fall back across Greg’s legs afterward, exhausted.

“Beautiful.” Greg didn’t realize he was pressing a kiss to a spot just behind Mycroft’s right ear until after he’d done it. Mycroft didn’t react, though, so Greg did it again. “You can come back up now, Mycroft,” he murmured. “At your own pace. We’ll clean up when you’re ready.” He laid his clean hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck and started rubbing gentle circles.

Several minutes later, Greg and Mycroft were lying sideways on the bed in parallel. Mycroft had re-buttoned his flies but was still shirtless, and Greg had what was probably the dopiest smile ever on his face. Eventually Greg couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

“Okay?” he asked quietly, still beaming at the ceiling.

Mycroft let out a contented sigh. “Quite,” he replied just as softly. “Surprisingly so, in fact. Thank you.”

“Why surprising?”

Mycroft hummed. “I suppose I still had some… trepidation, in this area. I do trust you, but I’ve been the pseudonymous ‘Mike’ for so long…”

“I understand.” Greg felt an urge to prop himself up on one elbow and look at the man, see what he could read on his face, but Lord knew _that_ exchange of information would be dreadfully one-sided. “For the record, though,” he added, “that whole scene was bloody hot. In case you were wondering.”


	6. Chapter 6

After such a ridiculously amazing--and _raw--_ scene, it was probably inevitable that Mycroft should come to his senses and back away. They exchanged a few stilted texts over the course of the next several days. Nothing explicit, but Greg’s overall impression was of Mycroft saying “we’ll see if I can possibly work you into my schedule.” It was hard to tell how much of that was due to a legitimately busy life and how much was embarrassment at how beautifully Mycroft had responded to Greg putting him under. Greg found himself wanking every damn time he went to bed, remembering how Mycroft’s lips looked around him. _Haven’t gone through this much lube since I was sixteen._

When Mycroft did finally condescend to see Greg again, it was for another fully-clothed scene and it took place at Mycroft’s surprisingly shabby office.

“Gotta say,” Greg admitted when Mycroft’s assistant finally showed him in, “this isn’t exactly what I expected for you. Pretty sure we’ve got these same desk chairs at the Yard.”

“Almost certainly,” Mycroft agreed. “Her Majesty’s government does like bulk-ordering furniture for efficiency’s sake. And as I’m far from the top of the food chain...”

Greg snorted. “Minor civil servant, right. I forgot.”

“Indeed. I’m not in this office all that frequently, however, so anything further would be wasted on me.”

There was a hint of humor in Mycroft’s face and a slight emphasis on “ _this_ office,” which cleared things up immensely. “I see,” Greg said neutrally. “Would a short chance to clear your mind be helpful? I’m assuming that’s why you asked me to come?”

“Yes, please.” Mycroft’s relief was visible in his eyes, no matter how much he was still playing up the low-level manager routine. “I hate to pull you away from your work, but I have an important meeting this afternoon I can’t miss and I’m finding it… difficult to ensure I’ll be at my best.”

Coming from Mycroft, _an important meeting_ could be anything from tea with the queen to planning World War Three. Greg nodded. “Is here in your office okay?”

“Please.”

“Right. Shoes off, then. Kneel with the soles of your feet touching the wall and arms at your sides. Hold your balance as best you can without allowing your heels to touch your derriere. Eyes closed, but keep your face to me. Follow the sound of my voice.”

The scene lasted less than fifteen minutes. They didn’t even touch. Greg walked Mycroft through some breathing, had him hold his arms out parallel to the floor as long as he could before fatigue brought them trembling down again, and wandered the small office to keep Mycroft’s sense of direction firmly focused on him. The exercise barely took the edge of Greg’s twitchiness, but Mycroft seemed genuinely thankful for the help. 

“You can come over again, you know,” Greg murmured to him once they’d finished. “Whether I’m there or no. An invitation to break in anytime is as close as I can get to saying my door is always open.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched into a hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m serious.” Greg caught him by the shoulder and turned him so they were face-to-face. “Lord knows it can be lonely sometimes with only paperwork and the telly for company. Even if you don’t need a scene, if you just want to share the same space for a while… it’s fine.”

A tiny pause, then a nod. “Thank you, Gregory. I will keep that in mind.”

It would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was a short one. More smut coming next time :-)


	7. Chapter 7

“I hope I’m not imposing.”

Greg blinked at the sight of Mycroft, prim and proper as ever, hard at work at Greg’s dinged-up old kitchen table. He had his laptop out and a few folders placed precisely around him. The contrast between that and the embarrassingly large stack of dishes Greg hadn’t gotten around to washing yet was disconcerting. “Imposing on me?” he asked aloud, and closed the front door behind himself. “No. Intimidating as hell, when I let myself think about what you actually do, but I’m guessing that’s not the kind of “imposing” you meant.”

“I try not to think about it either, to be honest,” Mycroft admitted. “Some decisions lend themselves to a single logical course of action, but allowing myself to focus on the magnitude of the damage if I were to be wrong… well.”

“How many times have you prevented the end of civilization as we know it?”

Mycroft shot him a look which kicked the “intimidating” factor up several notches. _No surprise he can personify the British government when he effortlessly pulls shit like that_ , Greg thought to himself. If he didn’t know better, that look would have made him swear Mycroft was a Dom.

He wasn’t, though. And he was sitting in Greg’s flat, waiting for Greg to get home. “So a quiet night in?” Greg asked. “Or just a scene to get you back on a more even keel before you save the world again? I was planning to pop in a frozen pizza, but I could cook if you’d rather have something else. I’m guessing you don’t eat a lot of 3-for-£4 ready meals despite how busy you always are.”

Mycroft dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, although the offer to cook for me is unnecessary. I found myself with some unexpected free time this evening and I thought… well, to be honest, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind keeping me company.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Still not going to make you eat Tesco’s-brand cardboard pizza, though.”

“Might I offer to have something delivered? I believe you favor a particular hibachi grill four blocks away…”

Greg grinned. “Deduce that from the wear pattern on my shoes? Or was it because you’ve been watching me on CCTV?”

Mycroft gazed back with a completely neutral expression. “Hardly a deduction,” he murmured. “Their delivery menu is on the side of your fridge.”

Greg glanced over--and yes, it was, although it was halfway buried with other “important” papers and the only way Mycroft would be able to tell what restaurant it was from if if he’d been snooping around the kitchen before Greg got home. “Have a poke around my flat, did you?” Greg teased. “Which, by the way, is fine. I’m assuming your minions have already rifled through my underwear drawer and my record collection and decided I wasn’t a threat.”

“Does that bother you?”

_Seriously?_ “I think anyone would be bothered, at least a bit, but I find I don’t mind as much because I know they’re just ensuring your safety.”

Mycroft huffed softly. “I don’t know what you think I do, Gregory, but I assure you it’s nowhere near as action-packed as you might imagine.”

“Mmmm, pull the other one.” Greg gave him a blatant once-over, gaze lingering on the breadth of Mycroft’s shoulders under his perfectly-tailored jacket. “Give me some credit, Mycroft. I do know that James Bond doesn’t really exist. I also know that you’re probably armed better than I am a large percentage of the time and--I’m guessing--an expert in at least one of the martial arts. You know your job is important, therefore your brain is an important asset to the country, therefore you’re valuable. It would be illogical to not protect that asset, and making yourself difficult to capture is a pretty obvious first step.” He looked away and gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I always assumed your umbrella was a bloody sword stick, to be honest.”

One neat eyebrow raised pointedly. “If I lived a hundred and fifty years ago, maybe. Alas, it is simply an umbrella.”

“Which martial art is it, then?” Greg asked. “I notice you didn’t deny that. Or being armed in general, even if it’s not with a deadly umbrella.”

Mycroft’s slow smile was something to be treasured. Slow and deadly but a blunt reminder of where else that mouth had been on the last occasion they were alone in Greg’s flat together. He didn’t reply, though, just held Greg’s gaze and then pointedly tipped his head toward the refrigerator and the take-out menus. “Shall we order?” he countered.

Greg couldn’t help a laugh. “Yes, okay, I was being nosy. But you can’t blame me, can you?”

“That would hardly be reasonable of me.”

“Is it judo?”

“Mmmm.”

“Aikido?”

“Gregory…”

“Okay, fine.” Greg pulled the menu off the fridge and passed it to Mycroft. “Don’t suppose you can deduce my regular order, can you?”

“Teriyaki steak and scallops with the fried rice,” Mycroft answered instantly. “The steak and scallops feel like a culinary splurge even though they only cost a dollar more than the chicken, and they’re good protein. I also suspect you developed a taste for fried rice in your younger days, being the most filling thing on most takeaway menus for the lowest price, and you continue to order it even though finances are no longer as tight as they once were.”

Greg tipped his head back and grinned at the ceiling. “Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Honestly I was asking because I never know what to get and don’t have a ‘regular’ order per se, but the steak and scallops are definitely on the rotation. That I didn’t even realize I had. Damn. So what do you want?”

In deference to the delivery boy showing up any minute, Greg mostly kept his hands off Mycroft while they waited. Mycroft was clearly itching to finish whatever work-related business he’d been in the middle of when Greg got home. To that end, Greg pulled up the other chair and sat opposite the man, then patted his lap. “Here, give me your foot.”

“Why?”

Greg let a hint of dominance show through his look. “Because I asked, obviously. You keep working on that and I’m going to see what I can do to help you relax.”

Mycroft didn’t seem entirely sure he knew what that was, but he gingerly propped one expensive Italian shoe over Greg’s thigh. Greg untied the laces, set the shoe down on the floor, and pressed both thumbs into the arch of Mycroft’s foot. He was rewarded with a surprised groan of pleasure, then the delightful sight of Mycroft blushing slightly. “Apologies,” Mycroft mumbled. “I hadn’t anticipated that feeling so good.”

“Excellent. You save the world until our food gets here, and I’ll take my time relearning reflexology. It’s a win-win.”

He did eventually switch to Mycroft’s other foot and managed to give them about even attention before the delivery boy arrived. By the time Greg paid and got back upstairs, Mycroft had shut his laptop and was actually slumping against the back of his chair the tiniest bit. _The beginnings of subspace already?_

That led to some interesting possibilities, ranging from the utterly mundane to the wildly kinky. There would be time for sex later, though. For now… “I think I’d like for you to go get one of the pillows from the sofa and come kneel on it here next to where I’m sitting.”

A tiny hesitation, but then Greg saw the moment Mycroft let his submissive streak make the decision. He gracefully retrieved the largest of Greg’s throw pillows, aligned it perfectly with the angle of Greg’s chair, and sank to his knees with his head bowed.

“You really are due for a good scene, aren’t you,” Greg said. He crossed over to stand directly behind Mycroft and bury a hand in his auburn hair. Mycroft sighed and leaned into the touch. “I’d like to play for a while tonight, if that’s okay with you. We both need it.”

Mycroft nodded silently.

“Close your eyes?”

Mycroft obediently closed them and leaned back against Greg’s thigh. Normally having someone’s that head so close to his dick made it hard for Greg to concentrate, but tonight he’d take it slow. For both of them.

“I’m going to step away now,” Greg cautioned. “I want your palms on your knees and your eyes to stay closed. You don’t have to initiate anything tonight, gorgeous - just listen and let go.”

A nearly-imperceptible twitch at “gorgeous.” _Something we’ll have to work through,_ Greg determined. Mycroft undoubtedly had a warped picture of himself in his head, if all that “caring is not an advantage” crap Sherlock kept spouting originally came from him. He deserved praise and caring just as much as anyone else - more so, if Greg had his way. Preferably in between sessions of being fucked through the mattress.

Greg quickly arranged the styrofoam containers of food on the table where he could reach them all comfortably, got out his own pair of chopsticks because the takeaway ones were always crap, and ran to his bedroom for one last thing before sitting down. Technically it was a sleep mask, but it had always felt like a blindfold to him. A comfortable, non-constricting blindfold. He gently slipped it over Mycroft’s eyes.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

Mycroft hummed something affirmative.

“Let’s eat, then.”

Luckily, Mycroft had ordered a steamed assortment of prawns and vegetables which were easy to grasp and maneuver with the chopsticks. _Actually, screw that._ Greg picked up a reasonably-sized piece of broccoli with his fingers and then brushed the back of his hand over Mycroft’s cheek.

“Open.”

Mycroft accepted the broccoli calmly, serenely, as if they’d been doing this together for years. Greg arranged his thigh to be a convenient resting place for Mycroft’s temple, then proceeded to feed him his supper one morsel at a time while sampling his own, messier meal with the chopsticks in his other hand. Not as gracefully as he might have with his dominant hand, but he managed. They were in no hurry. No hurry at all.

It felt like forever but also no time at all later when Greg pushed away the styrofoam trays and gently tugged Mycroft up and into his lap. The position should have been ridiculous - Mycroft was tall enough as it was without the added height advantage of Greg being underneath him - but Mycroft was still blindfolded and Greg had never in his life felt so content.

“You doing okay?” he asked, rubbing Mycroft’s warm back. “Answer with words, please.”

“Doing wonderf’lly,” Mycroft answered. His speech had the slightly slowed cadence of a sub who was either falling asleep or deeply under. Greg fervently hoped it was the second. “Calm.”

“Calm is good.” Greg juggled Mycroft’s weight so it wouldn’t put his legs to sleep, allowed more of Mycroft’s torso to press against his own chest. “Tired?”

Mycroft shook his head no. “Jus’ quiet.”

“That’s good. I’m proud of you, Mycroft. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Of course I trus’ you.”

As if that wasn’t the single-most earth-shattering thing Greg had heard all year.

“Aroused,” Mycroft added. Greg tilted his head a bit to peek - and yes, that was definitely true also.

“Would you like to do something about that? Or do you want to sleep first?”

Mycroft slumped harder into to Greg’s chest. “You.”

“I’d like that very much, Mycroft.” Greg fought to keep his internal possessiveness out of his voice. “In a moment we’re both going to stand up and I will lead you to the bedroom. I’ll help you lie down on the bed on your stomach and we’ll see what we can do to make us both feel good, hmmm?”


End file.
